Clarity

You know, I alternately liked and did not like this when I finished writing it. It's weird, and moves a little faster than I intended. It figures that when I get inspiration to write, it's not for my long fic or for any of the one-shots I've got actually planned; but I suppose I don't mind this one anyway. Enjoy. And yes, there are teeny hints of H/K; it's just about inevitable for me at this point.

Note: Some credit goes to Blossomwitch, since I'm once again obliquely referencing her fic 'Define Mercy'. I still consider it part of YYH canon due to its sheer awesomeness and the amazing amount of sense it makes. Go, and be with the reading of it!

Special thanks also to Cheerfulhope of Lunaescence Archives, who gave this a once-over and allayed my suspicions that there was something terribly wrong with it.

The temple courtyard was gray and shifting around them in the near-night where they had chosen to meet. Solitude; twilight; they were alone in the chill, separated only by flying leaves, two near-silent figures under a darkening sky.

"So you're leaving, then?"

Soft words, to hold such volumes of conflict. The verdant eyes were better controlled, betraying nothing but featureless expectancy, waiting for Hiei's answer.

"Of course I am." There was no room for conflict in his own voice. Conviction was evident.

He saw the kitsune nearly adopt one of his deprecating half-smiles, and fail to form the expression; instead his face smoothed even further, until, like a Noh mask, it was an artificial caricature. He said, "When did you decide?"

The fire demon shook his head sharply. "There was nothing to decide," he answered impatiently. "You knew I would leave."

"I had hoped—" A pause. "I thought perhaps you would change your mind. You have much to tie you here."

"I have nothing to tie me here," Hiei snapped.

The mask wavered with unidentifiable emotion. Kurama waited until it recovered. "Don't you?"

"No." A firm answer, as resolute as his first. And yet Kurama was not convinced, and Hiei saw it even through the veneer of lifelessness. "Our partnership benefits us nothing any longer," he continued against that doubt. "Our parole is ended. We have no reason to remain in this world—I have no reason," he amended, seeing the dead eyes flicker. It was not a surprise. As Kurama had always known he would leave, he had always known the once-youko would stay.

Why are you resisting the inevitable, fox?

Mukuro had offered him a position as her heir; Kurama was aware. While Yuusuke remained in the Makai, doing gods knew what with his new freedom, Hiei had realized that he finally had the opportunity to do the same. With his parole as a Reikai Tantei completed, his record erased, he wanted nothing more than to leave the Ningenkai and begin to work for his new goals as quickly as possible. And yet he was here instead, and he had asked Kurama to be here also, so that they could sever their ties cleanly and without altercation.

It seemed, however, that he was to have an altercation despite his best efforts, and it was to his great frustration that he did not understand why Kurama was forcing the issue.

"Don't you?" the fox was repeating softly.

"You're not deaf, nor are you dull-witted," snapped the fire demon. "Don't make me say it again."

"Then you find my companionship unsatisfactory?"

So like Kurama, to twist a knife out of spite.

"That is not relevant," he sidestepped.

"Isn't it?" The swift rejoinder, laden with muffled anger that few others would have been able to detect, spoke more strongly for the redhead's years among humans than anything yet said; and the continuation even more. "Satisfactory companionship could be considered a very tangible tie."

The other demon snorted. "Sound any more human and even you'll begin to understand. Your emotions should not have this much hold over you—you know better."

A glacial smile stretched the mask without cracking it as Kurama replied, "It is very like you, to believe that it is accidental." The anger had not left his voice.

Despite himself, Hiei was unnerved. He turned his back to diminish it.

"I still have respect for you. Don't strain it."

"You're lying to me, Hiei."

Though still quiet, the words were jarring in their sheer audacity. No one accused Hiei of deliberate dishonesty, and least of all Kurama, who knew better. It was no great effort to remain facing the silent woods, but it was a great effort indeed not to let his youki flare, showing his anger to not only his partner but to every demon in the immediate vicinity. "Perhaps it's your goal to lose that respect. I suspect that's why you've chosen to be unforgivably insulting." His tone dripped icily.

"Insulting, perhaps, but not in the way you think," the redhead answered, damnably calm. "I believe even you do not realize the depths of your scorn for me; I've learned to recognize it over the time we've been paroled. You asked me here for your own peace of mind, and not from respect, and do not pretend otherwise."

There was a small element of truth to that; it stung. Hiei would not betray that reaction, and masked it by retorting, "I was not aware that my mind lay so open to you, that you needed no telepathy to know its secrets. Have you acquired mental abilities beyond the last feeble attempt I witnessed, or has your human education gifted you with unusual insight?"

"You rely too much on your Jagan, if you think that is the only way to gain knowledge of you. You betray more than you realize."

"Can you muster no better defense than further insult?"

The shadows flickered, and something uncurled behind him; he knew Kurama was venting some of his anger on the plants around him. They rose in abnormal growth, surrounding the two demons—Hiei stepped deliberately outside of the writhing enclosure. Loss of control, Kurama? You were not so weak before.

As though the thought had been purposely sent, or perhaps spoken aloud, the plants abruptly withdrew, until they shrank into the ground and left it bare. A long interval passed. At its end, Hiei nearly heard the kitsune shrug in cold surrender, so clear was the motion behind him. "Perhaps we will never understand each other. You are right—you have nothing to tie you here. It truly is best if you leave." He paused for no more than a breath. "I wish you well of it."

Damn. Why did that feel like an attack?

Hiei realized that Kurama had been steadily, subtly attempting to injure his pride, to provoke a reaction, and controlled the harsh flare of anger that would gratify that attempt more than he already had. He also recognized that there was more to this than the ordinary youko cruelty he was used to experiencing—not that it was any of his concern what it truly was.

He considered. There was much to be said for departing now, while Kurama had acquiesced, however bitterly. That did not sit well with him, however. Kurama had been an eminently good partner, a reliable ally, and a companion such as Hiei had never before had in his long life. To leave in such a fashion would undervalue their partnership; Hiei needed no more regrets than he already had. It would be dishonorable, and he always regretted dishonor.

But he had never been one to use words in quite the manner that Kurama did, and did not know how to dance his way through their intricacies in a way that would be effective without giving further offense. The silence was stretching to an embarrassing length.

It did not help that nothing about this encounter made sense to Hiei. Kurama had known this would occur; the Jaganshi had never bothered to hide it, and there had never been any objection before now. True, Hiei had considered quite seriously, several times, changing his mind, for various reasons: loyalty to his team, worry for Yukina, unwillingness to serve anyone besides himself, trepidation about returning to the world of his birth with such a smirched reputation. Yet there was a wrongness about all these rationalizations that prevented them from superseding his resolve despite their importance. He knew without question that he must take this path, and he had thought Kurama understood. They had shared their thoughts on rare occasions, and there had been no indication of any confusion—

Quite suddenly, an idea occurred to him, a way to circumvent his problem entirely.

"If understanding is your concern, it can be remedied," he said, turning back to face the doll-like eyes. His hand went to the warded headband he wore, and pulled it free.

The mask cracked—at last—and Kurama took a step back before he recovered. "There is no need for that, Hiei—"

Hiei laughed mercilessly. "Don't spite me, kitsune. You may mock my reliance on the Jagan eye, but you cannot deny that it has its uses."

Kurama didn't answer.

Hiei interpreted the silence and snorted with disgust. "I'll refrain from probing you, Kurama. Stop being foolish; I told you long ago I would not take from your mind without leave."

"And you would grant me access to your mind, without any reciprocation?" The words were heavy with ironic mistrust.

"Hardly. You so seldom think, fox. I'll project."

The kitsune remained tensed for a long moment, and his eyes warred with each other; the Jaganshi thought at first that he would refuse. He let his anger glow softly through the Jagan as he opened it, at the realization that Kurama might spurn his wholly uncharacteristic, disgustingly altruistic offer. You'd dare that, Kurama?

No. Hiei would not permit refusal. The offer had been made, and he would follow through, whether Kurama willed it or not. It was no great crime to enter unless he were to forcibly take, and whatever the foolish youko might suspect, that was not his intention. He prepared for intrusion, furious that Kurama had made it necessary.

But then, just as the power began to swell, Kurama slowly unwound, letting his face settle into its normal lines, and nodded wordless assent. His tone remained clipped as he reinforced it verbally, to be sure Hiei did not mistake his acquiescence. "If you are certain."

He concealed his slight relief. "Hn. I am."

The Jagan flashed.

Hiei was suffocating.

This place closed him in, lethargic and ponderous and heavy like a mantle, with unending days and briefly flashing nights—it dulled his mind, slowed his body, kept him in torpor until he felt he would run dry of energy and simply cease to be. There was nothing for which he could strive, no challenges that could hone him. There was not even sport here, where he was not permitted to hunt or to fight anything but the insignificant demons who did only what he himself would have done, according to his nature.

He was fire kept on a leash; like the flame of a single candle, trapped, given just enough fuel to survive but none to grow. It was a future already spent, a mockery of the freedom every demon craved. An entire world lay at his disposal—but it was not his world, and it held nothing for him but stagnation.

He owed Kurama for it, knowing what his existence would have otherwise been as he remained imprisoned in Reikai's dungeons. His only hope of sanity had been this half-life, and he would not have chosen otherwise but for his own pride. He had hoped, at first, that even here among humans there was something worth experiencing. But the Ningenkai had disappointed him; once he had found the limits of it, had discovered how little he could better his abilities and his mind, he could never have remained happy here. The Makai called to him with bitter winds and keening cries, continued in his dreams to build in stature until everything paled before it, making him long to kill some poor soul and comfort himself with the smell of blood and fear and death. He had never been happy there, either; but he thought it might help him learn of happiness, if only because it was home.

—he began to disengage, and then power surged along the link—

Hatred, loyalty, resentment, kinship, anger, gratitude, affection—in his mind all these were linked to the kitsune, some in greater measure than others. He thought, perhaps, that Kurama felt the same towards the Ningenkai, and likeness had always attracted him. Kurama might have taught him happiness as well, were he not so pathetically attached to the human life he had created for himself. To have been such a dangerous creature, feckless and restless, and to have rooted so deeply in the few years of his human captivity, he must have changed in ways beyond Hiei's comprehension. There, too, lay eventual disappointment and ruin. Kurama had become something surreal, familiar and strange at once, and there could never be true understanding between them.

The Makai would never disappoint him. It never changed.

The two dropped out of their brief rapport with identical intakes of breath, shaking it off with effort. It had been strong. The Jagan was used over-frequently these days, and it had pushed more power into the simple contact than had been intended.

Hiei was angry—some of that, he had not meant to convey, and he sensed that it was his own error and no intrusion of Kurama's. His mind burned with humiliation at having miscalculated in such a disastrous way. Quickly he covered the Jagan, retying the ward firmly, determined to act as though he had made no mistake. He would not add to his companion's derision by admitting it.

But Kurama did not look particularly disdainful. Rather, his face had gone even cleaner of expression than it had been before, hollow and pale, the eyes turned inward so that Hiei abruptly felt like an intruder—a feeling that, after his fumbled mental projection, he was in no mood to tolerate. He growled.

"Did that satisfy you, Kurama? Or need we continue with unproductive talk?"

He received no answer, as though he faced a statue in the darkness.

"Answer me!" Hiei commanded, striding forward until he was very close to Kurama—close enough that he should have been given a warning about invading his personal space. But no such warning was forthcoming, and Kurama was not looking at him or at anything.

His anger heightened at being ignored, and he turned abruptly on his heel, presenting the fox with his back once more.

Ten seconds.

He ticked them off in his mind, crisply and precisely, furious at himself that he was even giving Kurama this long after such a reaction. He had surrendered a vulnerability without willingness, and he blamed Kurama for it as much as himself. His leave-taking had been delayed for far too long—he now regretted this meeting in its entirety and wished he had never initiated it. I should have gone without word. He would have understood as well either way.

Three. Four.

He could not even detect Kurama's breathing; it was as if he'd gone into trance.

Six. Seven.

It should have been easier than this; the stunt with the Jagan should not have been necessary. Kurama was a demon—he should have needed no farewell, no explanation. It ought to have been obvious to him why Hiei could not choose to stay. But then, if that were so, he would have accompanied Hiei, anyway; he was not really a demon any longer. Perhaps, Hiei thought, that was what he resented. A demon would not have reacted that way, no matter the strength of the rapport, and it was unworthy of Kurama on many levels.

Nine. Ten.

"Suit yourself. I'm leaving."

He kicked off into a run, speeding away through the trees of Genkai's forest, unerringly navigating towards the place where the barrier had once been and where he could already smell Makai's air. He had a place there, finally, and could be again what he had once been, without the need for revenge or the drive to find anything beyond his own satisfaction.

That was all he required. Why had he gone to such lengths to resolve their partnership? If Kurama still did not comprehend, that was as it would be, and it no longer concerned him. He had done his best. They would not likely see each other again. That, in itself, was almost a comfort.

Almost.

A flash crossed his mind once again.

/Good luck./

The thought overpowered his vision for a bare second. Hiei nearly stumbled, righting himself and halting on a branch. He cast his surprised gaze back towards the temple, now out of sight save for its curved roof rising above the canopy. The youko's touch on his mind withdrew swiftly, locking itself behind his usual barriers, so that he could hardly even make out a ki signature among the trees. Hiei wondered for an instant if he had imagined it.

No. His mind tingled with the aftereffects of the communication. Kurama had, indeed, spoken to him. The simple message, unadorned by any of the fox's usual extraneous words, shocked him with its clarity. Kurama's not that strong a telepath, he thought errantly—but there had been more to it than that.

Always before, there had been a distance between them even in thought, a symbol of their irreconcilable differences. All their contact had been through a careful filter, and little fault could be found with that. They had not been family, and there had always been a wariness between them that could not be bridged.

But it had been absent for that message, for those two lucid words, betraying a depth of nonverbal feeling that made his head spin; and Hiei almost smiled through his surprise. There had been much unspoken in it, and he was sure that every aspect of it had been meant for him to hear, a gift in return for what Hiei had accidentally given.

And among the emotions which he would need to puzzle out, over a long introspection, one thing was clear: Kurama at last understood.

Openness for openness. Very well then, kitsune;

/Good luck to you, too./

He resumed his flight, anger melting away. Now it was true: he had nothing to tie him here; but he thought he might find in that last gift a reason, however small, to one day return.

Perhaps.

He did not look back again.